


Glima

by Zombieprinz



Category: The Malazan Book of the Fallen - Steven Erikson
Genre: Gen, glima, its really more of a concept than a colour, the word ochre starts to feel unreal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-22
Updated: 2015-11-22
Packaged: 2018-05-02 22:46:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5266703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zombieprinz/pseuds/Zombieprinz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The wastelands prove to be boring, and Trotts offers to teach the sappers how to entertain themselves with viking wrestling. Fiddler and Hedge try themselves at glima.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Glima

Ochre. 

Everything was fucking ochre around here, and Fiddler decided there wasn’t a colour in the world, any colour, that could possibly be more boring. 

Black at least held a certain danger, being associated with the dark and all. White made you dizzy if you looked to long at the pure and brilliant colour. 

But the ochre hue of the desert surrounding the army camp was driving him insane slowly. Even the sparse trees that jutted out from the set of boulders he was seeking shadow beneath was starting to look strangely brown. Sand coloured. Ochre. He began to even hate the word.

 

The company had halted in the middle of this barren land, a small spring convincing the soldiers this was a better place to make camp than others, and as thankful as Fid was for the break, he’d rather march on now than stay. Marching, he had a task, could concentrate on that instead of the bleak landscape that was dulling his mind. 

He wasn’t even in a mood for a game of knuckle dice. The sapper marched over to Hedge, who had apparently managed to liberate a skin of wine from a supply cart. How exactly would remain a mystery, but Fiddler wasn’t going to ask. Wordlessly, Hedge handed the skin over as Fiddler let himself fall into the dust next to him, shaking up small clouds of sand in the process. 

 

And as was the custom, the bridgeburners, by way of tending to pride themself with excellent senses, if actually existant or not, didn’t take long to spot the wine that had suddenly appeared in their midst. It wasn’t nearly enough to get them drunk, but by workings of alcohol and heat, at least a few of them arrived at the gates of being tipsy. 

 

“I can’t wait to get out of this wasteland.” Mallet whined over the last drop of red, speaking everyone’s thoughts. “There’s just nothing to do.” Hedge grinned and leaned back against the outcrop of stone, kicking Fiddler in the hip in the process. “If that fiddle of yours was working, you could at least play us a jig. Find a dress for Mallet and all, maybe he’d stop complaining.” The mage scowled, but rather swatted the flies away than Hedge. 

 

“Oy Detoran, you got a nice pretty dress for Mallet here?” The Falari woman snorted, but didnt raise from where she was stretched out on a patch that was more sand than stone. “Quit picking on poor Mallet or he might accidentally fuck up which limb goes where next time he tries to save your sorry hide. He hasn't got the legs for a dress anyway.” At that, the small group broke in laughter, save for the still scowling Mallet. And that was really more on principle than from actually being pissed off. 

 

“You got a better idea then? There’s nothing to do round here. And there’s not nearly enough ale or wine or anything to get properly drunk and make Fid lay the cards.” Hedge stared mournfully at the empty skin at Fiddler’s side, then put his feet in Fid's lap instead, earning him a half incredulous glance. 

 

“Nah… Trotts?” Detoran detoured the question. The Barghast seemed to think for a moment, then a grin spread over his face. “I would teach you a game. That is, if you’re not already too exhausted from lazing around in the shade." 

 

Rising to the challenge, Fiddler got to his feet and shoved Hedge in the process, who toppled over onto his side and bit sand. Spitting out gravel, he also got up. Whatever this proposed game was, Fiddler was on now. 

 

The Barghast smiled wistfully, his fetishes and trophys clinking together as he got up to stand before them. With a few deft movements, he had them both arranged, even before either of the sappers could utter their protest. Facing each other, hands at each others belt; one inward, one outward, foreheads nearly knocked together. 

 

Detoran howled with laughter. "Guess it’ll not you this time who’ll do the dancing, Mallet” She sputtered, trying to find her voice between the fits.  
“Now, you do glima. Let go, you lose. Touch the ground with your shoulders, you lose.”

 

Trotts stepped away quickly, as Hedge was swung around immediately, Fiddler managing to lift him from the ground by his belt. Somehow, he landed on his feet, set them apart to gain a solid stand. 

 

“Not like this, Fid.” He bit out, humour in his voice. 

 

His shoulder smashed into Fiddler’s chest, trying to topple him over, make him lose his balance, anything. Fiddler spun around, pulled him into the movement by the belt, which only prompted Hedge to hook a heel behind Fid’s leg and use him for steadying as much as try to pull his leg out from under him. Which only succeeded marginally, as Fiddler stepped backwards, destroying Hedge’s stand completely. Holding on to Fiddler’s belt still, he shoved again, forcing Fid back and nearly running Detoran over, who was still on the ground. 

“Oy, watch it!” Hedge grinned, took a leap and pulled, but Fid only followed suit. The whole thing did indeed look like a dance, albeit a very violent one, in which a lot of yanking and grunting and dangerous grins were involved. 

 

The end came quicker than expected by both. Fid had adopted Hedge’s tactic from earlier, sneaked a boot behind his ankle and Hedge, still off kilter, stumbled over it, but turned in the fall. His hands stayed close, his eyes flashing a message of “wont go down alone” to his friend, and down they tumbled, kicking up a cloud of dust, a victorious howl ripping from Hedge’s throat as he managed to land on the still shellshocked Fiddler, who might or might not have gotten the air knocked out of him. 

 

Detoran handed over a string of coins to Mallet, who smiled wryly, Whiskeyjack, sitting on the cart nearby and studying a map, turned back to his papers with just the slightest smirk, and Trotts beamed at them.

 

“Fun, yes?” Fiddler nodded, still stunned by the turn of events, and let Hedge help him to his feet. “Slippery like an eel, this one.” He managed to get out, and motioned for someone to hand him some water, now that the wine was gone. “Aw, come on Fid, don’t be a sore loser. Next time, who knows, maybe you’ll win.”

The sapper studied his friend, contemplating the proposition of a “next time”, then nodded.“Next time, I’ll make you eat dirt.” He promised.


End file.
